


Pink

by the_deep_magic



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Amnesia, First Time, Frottage, Hangover, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-14
Updated: 2009-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim’s first thought upon waking is that everything has gone completely, mysteriously, and catastrophically pink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marionetteblue3](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=marionetteblue3).



> Written for Round One of trek_exchange @ LJ

Jim’s first thought upon waking is that everything has gone completely, mysteriously, and catastrophically pink.

His second thought, though, brings the realization that his eyes are so crusty that he hasn’t actually opened them, and it’s the light filtered through his eyelids that’s this strange color. He brings his hands up to wipe his face and decides that eye boogers are a really, really bad sign.

He’s woken up in his own bed, which is good, and the lights have come on as usually programmed, which is another promising sign of normality, but everything else is a complete blur. Jim pushes himself up on his elbows only to watch his surroundings spin sharply to the right – the welcome sign to hangover country. There is something oddly comforting about it.

Jim takes his time assessing the usually post-debauchery scenario – his head’s at the foot of the bed, his mouth tastes like something crawled in there to die, and he’s wearing nothing but his uniform pants.

Literally nothing but his pants.  _Huh_ , Jim thinks as he propels himself toward the shower, listing gently to port, _I could’ve sworn I was wearing underwear yesterday_.

The underwear thing isn’t even the most bizarre part. Jim is a bit of a connoisseur of hangovers, despite having had very few in the year since he was promoted to captain. He knows the sharp, sour feel of a wine hangover, the grinding headache after a night with the engineering crew on shore leave, and the please-kill-me-now combination of agony and shame that follows too much Andorian ale _and_ too many Andorians.

Usually, though he can remember at least some of the night before. He’s not too worried yet; a quick removal of his trousers – and, sadly, a chunk of accompanying pubic hair – reveals the fact that at some point he had come rather spectacularly in his pants, which means that at least he had some fun. And he’s pretty sure even Bones can’t think up an STD you can catch through Starfleet regulation cotton-poly blend, so all is safe on that front.

The shower does wonders for his head, if not his memory, and he gets out feeling much more humanoid and much less like one of those horrible blob creatures from Omicron Perseii 7. He does remember that he’s got the whole day off today, which at least makes him feel a bit better about the brain cells he killed last night. 

Despite feeling better, he’s still not back to his usual grace – Jim nearly trips over the bottle lying beside his desk.  _Only one?_  The label has been torn off, so he picks up the bottle and sniffs it. Another flash of color darts through his brain. He still has no idea what he drank last night, but whatever it was, it was a violent shade of pink.

After about a dozen glasses of water, Jim feels ready to face the day. Unfortunately, the day begins with facing Bones, since Bones is not only the possessor of a lovely pharmaceutical cocktail that will put Jim’s head back on his shoulders, but also the most likely person on the ship to know what the hell went on last night, as he was probably involved. Jim is trying to remember, he really is, but every time he pushes too hard at his memory, the room starts to spin again.

He finds the good doctor checking off the new inventory in sickbay. “Hell of a party last night, huh?” Jim ventures.

Bones rolls his eyes. “Keep rubbing it in. The next time I have a night off and you have to spend it actually doing your job, _I’m_ gonna spend the whole next day being a douchebag about it.”

This is unexpected – there was drunken debauchery and Bones _wasn’t_ involved? This is the _Enterprise_ , right? From the look on McCoy’s face, Jim knows he just said the last part out loud. “You okay, Jim?”

“Aw, you getting concerned about me now?”

“No, but if you die on me, the pointy-eared hobgoblin takes over.”

“You’re a space racist, Bones,” Jim says, suddenly and inexplicably crabby.

McCoy is really looking at him strangely now, like he’s an impostor in his own skin. “Seriously, Jim.”

Kirk shifts his weight uneasily. “It’s just a hangover, really. It’s just—   I can’t really remember much of anything after lunch yesterday.”

Bones sighs. “Well, I can’t say I blame you much after the thing with Pike.”

“There was a thing with Pike? What kind of thing?”

“You really don’t remember? Well… I think that’s the result you were looking for last night. Don’t try to remember.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I didn’t see it, but I sure as hell heard about it. I’m still putting away supplies, so I don’t know where anything is. Come back in about half an hour and I’ll give you something for the hangover.”

“A back rub and a Cardassian Sunrise?”

“A hypospray in the neck. You deserve it.”

Still confused, Jim starts to go, then turns back to Bones. “Hey, just out of curiosity, what kind of drink is pink and sweet and causes eye boogers and hopefully temporary retrograde amnesia?”

“I can try to find out for you. I guess this means you stayed away from the Andorian ale this time. Good for you.”

 **  
_Stardate: Yesterday, 2100 hours. Location: Recreation Room…_   
**

“This isn’t Andorian ale,” said Jim. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not Andorian ale.”

Spock frowned. “I apologize for the error, Captain. I am not familiar with many intoxicating beverages, and the ensigns seemed to be under the mistaken impression that this bottle was Andorian in origin.”

Jim laughed, sniffing the bright pink liquid in his cup. “Probably paid out the ass for it, too. Black market types will stick anything in a blue bottle and sell it for jacked-up prices to kids who are pretending to be badasses.”

“You speak about such people with a great deal of certainty. I am unconvinced that consuming this beverage is wise.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed as Jim took a careful sip of the pink stuff. “It’s Talaxian wine, kind of mango-y. Sweet as hell, but strong enough to get me drunk.”

Spock blinked at Jim. Twice. “Look, I realize everyone thinks I’m a high-functioning alcoholic, but I’ve never been drunk on shift. Hell, I haven’t even been hung over on shift since the day after the first time I was wounded on an away mission. What was that, a year ago?”

“One year, two months, twenty-six days. And I feel compelled to remind you that your ‘wound’ was a mild skin abrasion incurred when you tripped over your own ceremonial robes.”

“Bastard things, those robes. But alcohol is sometimes a medically necessary anesthetic.”

“I imagine your ego sustained the worst of your injuries.”

“Bingo. See, this is just a little Band-aid for my dignity. What there is left of it, anyway.”

“I understand that one of the primary symptoms of alcohol addiction is the inability to admit to the problem.”

“Oh, hush.”

&&&

Jim heads for the bridge, hoping to find Spock. The Vulcan should be able to at least point Jim on the right track. Only problem is that Spock’s not there.

Well, that’s not the only problem. The other one is that everyone on the bridge is sort of studiously not-looking at him. He pulls together his perceptive powers – the ones nobody else thinks he actually has – and puts them to work. If this awkwardness were the result of drunken revelry, Uhura would be glaring at him, which she isn’t, and Chekov would be gazing at him with poorly-veiled admiration, which he _definitely_ isn’t.

In fact, when Kirk finally manages to make eye contact with Chekov, the young Russian makes a noise that could only be classified as a squeak and darts off the bridge. If Sulu didn’t have the conn, he’d be reprimanded for that. But as it is, Sulu just nods stiffly at Jim.

“Mr. Sulu, have you seen Commander Spock recently?”

“Uh, no sir. I believe he also has the day off.”

Kirk hopes he managed to hide the small spark of surprise he feels. Something in his memory is trying to poke through. He briefly considers asking Sulu, who would probably provide the highest useful-information-to-outright-mocking ratio, but decides it would probably Not Do to let on to the bridge crew that he does not remember large chunks of yesterday.

“Thank you, lieutenant. Carry on.”

Jim goes to leave, but is stopped by a hissed “ _Jim_!” when he passes Uhura’s station. Kirk is faintly surprised, as he and Uhura haven’t talked much since she broke up with Spock. He still doesn’t know what happened – not that he wants to know – but remembers thinking she was, in a strange sort of way, good for Spock. Now, however, her voice brings up a whisper of irritation that he can’t quite place.

Uhura follows him out to the corridor. “Look, it’s not that I don’t agree with what Admiral Pike said, or that it’s something I haven’t told you a million times, but—” She glances around briefly. “Between you and me, I think he’s having some troubles at home and his spinal rehab isn’t going well – at least that’s what Nina in Medical tells me – and that’s why he was so harsh with you.”

The look on Uhura’s face is real sympathy, and Jim opens his mouth to ask the question. Then he thinks: does he really want Uhura to know that he got so wasted out of shame that he doesn’t remember it? He does not.   It could still be ammunition at a time when she’s feeling… less sympathetic.

Fortunately, Jim is rescued by the chirrup of his communicator. “Kirk here.”

“Jim, get your ass back to sickbay post haste.”

He rolls his eyes and, as though he isn’t still holding the channel open on the communicator, says to Uhura, “He just can’t get enough of me.”

Uhura snorts in a somewhat less-than-ladylike fashion and Kirk can’t remember why he’d ever been irritated at her. Perversely, the more she pretends to hate him, the more he likes her. The universe just makes more sense that way. “Coming, dear!” he all but sings into the comm as he turns to go.

Before he gets to the turbolift, he hears Uhura mutter “Give the doctor my sympathies, _sir_.”

 

 _  
**Stardate: Yesterday, 1700 hours. Location: Bridge…**   
_

“Patch him through, Lieutenant Uhura.”

“Yes, sir.” 

At least the eyeroll inherent in the “sir” was more implied than explicit these days. Jim turned to face the viewscreen.

“Captain Kirk!”

Wow, Jim thought, Admiral Pike looked _pissed_. “Sir?”

“Would you care to explain your actions during your most recent mission to Omicron Perseii Seven?”

“It’s all in my report, sir,” Jim replied with a grin that he hoped would hide the unpleasant sensation of his heart dropping into his gut.

“That ‘report’ is less than 500 words long and sounds as though it was written by a twelve-year-old child.”

Everyone else on the bridge suddenly became extremely interested in whatever was right in front of them. Why the hell was Pike airing all this here and now, instead of on a private channel? Jim barely bit back his gut response – _did you check the medical reports and see that I was too doped up on pain meds to write that fucking report?_  But he managed to speak in a somewhat level voice. “Sir, I was confined to sickbay during the time that—“

“Oh, yes, your visit to sickbay,” Pike snapped. “Seems that wouldn’t have even been necessary if you’d read the cultural briefing prepared by Lieutenant Uhura before you gravely insulted a member of the royal family.”

“That was an honest—“

“Kirk, these ‘mistakes’ are cropping up far too frequently and frankly I’m sick of them. We have had this conversation before, but I am repeating it now in front of your bridge crew in the hope that perhaps one of them will keep you accountable. You are far more intelligent than your recent record would suggest. You best display that intelligence more often if you wish to have a future here at Starfleet. Pike out.”

In the dead silence that followed the end of the transmission, Jim was certain he could hear the quiet hiss of his ego slowly deflating.

&&&

Before Jim can make it all the way through the door, a pair of underwear hits him in the face. At least it’s his underwear. The waistband says so.

“Dammit, mom,” he mutters. Then: “Bones, have you been going through my lingerie drawer again.”

Bones looks singularly unamused. “Do you know who brought those to me? Chekov.”

“ _Chekov’s_ been going through my lingerie drawer?”

“No, you prize dumbass, Chekov’s been in the rec room. On the couch. Where he found those wedged between the cushions.”

“Huh,” muses Jim, “That would explain a few things. And make other things a lot more confusing. Bones, what the hell did I _do_ last night? Or whom?"

“How is it that you can remember when to use ‘who’ and ‘whom’ but you can’t remember to keep it in your damn pants?”

“But I did! Or I put it back in my pants, at least…”

“ _Do not explain_ ,” says Bones, clapping his hand over his eyes. “Alright, the last time I saw you was at dinner, at about 1930. We know that at some point after that, you were in the rec room. This is what will happen: I will pull up the security tapes for you. I will then leave the room. You will watch the tapes, erase them, and never speak of them again. Is this clear?”

“Yes,” Jim sighs. Thing is, he’s pretty sure Bones wants to know what went on just as much as he does. Which is why he will fill him in later, in great detail.

Bones is already leaning over the computer.   “What the hell?”

“What is it?” Jim asks.

“Someone’s already erased the footage. Command code Victor Alpha seven seven two Delta. Which is…”

Somehow, Jim knows the answer before he hears it. “Spock.”

For several long seconds, Jim and Bones just stare helplessly at each other as they try desperately to avoid mentally connecting the concepts of “Spock” and “rec room” and “no pants.” Neither is entirely successful.

Jim breaks the stare first and clears his throat. “Bones. Did you ever find out what I might have ingested last night?”

“Um, yes. From what you described, it was probably Talaxian wine.”

“What? No. No way I got that fucked up from one bottle of Talaxian wine.”

“You didn’t.   Apparently, certain vintages were treated with a particular chemical that, in humans, can cause increased conjuctival discharge and temporary memory loss.”

“A chemical?”

“An… aphrodisiac.”

Jim is no longer looking at Bones. Jim cannot look at Bones. Jim may never be able to look at Bones again. “So. About this ‘never speaking of it again’? How ‘bout we go with that plan. Especially to anyone else.”

 

 _  
**Stardate: Yesterday, 2300 hours. Location: Recreation Room…**   
_

“See,” Jim began, “if it was anyone else. I mean _anyone_ else, even my mom, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“I agree with your assessment,” said Spock, leaning further across the table. “Your mother would have communicated her disapproval in a more nurturing manner. And given your absent relationship with your father, it is logical that you would look to Admiral Pike as a paternal figure. And despite the fact that, as your superior officer, he has every right to address you as he sees fit, you feel as though your own father has – what is the peculiar phrase? – ‘chewed you out’ in front of your crew. Your friends, as it were.”

And then he hiccupped.

Jim had been on the edge of something deep and black and melancholy, but that hiccup yanked him right back. “Thought you said alcohol didn’t affect Vulcans.”

“It does not. That was merely a spasm of my respiratory tract, albeit a poorly-timed one.”

Jim blew Spock a raspberry, nice and wet, but followed it up with a grin. “This is some good shit,” he said, raising his half-empty glass of obscenely pink liquid.

To his surprise, Spock raised his glass as well, clinking them together. “Indeed.”

“Is it hot in here?” Jim asked, squirming a bit in his seat. “It feels… I dunno… hot.”

“I am not bothered by the ambient air temperature.”

“That’s because you’re, like, a stove to begin with. A kiln. A blast furnace. God, it’s really _hot_. I’m gonna take off my pants.”

Spock looked downright scandalized, which is to say his lip may have twitched a little. “Captain, I am not certain that is the wisest course of action. In fact, I am certain it is _not_ the wisest course of action.”

“But my legs are hot,” Jim whined, ridding himself of the offending garment. Regrettably, he had neglected to remove his shoes first, and was thus forced to engage in some awkward hopping to remain upright. Well, mostly upright. “And my ass is… well, my ass is always hot, but now it’s _hot_ hot.” He looked up to see Spock’s gaze focused very intently on something on the wall to his left, something most definitely not in Jim’s direction. And Spock’s cheeks, were they a little… green?

“Captain—“ began Spock.

“How many times do I have to tell you? When we’re not on duty, call me Jim.”

“Very well, Jim,” he said, voice strangely calm and toneless even for Spock. “It would appear that you have removed your undergarments along with your trousers.”

Jim looked down. “Affirmative, Spock.” Funny, Spock was acting like this was a bad thing. Why was this a bad thing? Oh, right – public place, nudity, the whole being-a-captain thing. Shit. A third-rate captain promoted only because there were so few other candidates, failing miserably at his job and now with no pants. And now that he thought about it, the room might be a bit drafty instead. This thought depressed him a great deal, and Jim began to slide back down into gloominess. He must have been tipsier than he’d originally thought, because before he could stop himself he asked, “Spock, am I a good captain?”

The Vulcan looked even greener than before. “I will answer that question to the best of my ability when you are once again properly dressed.”

“Fine,” Jim spat, and grabbed his pants up off the floor, forgetting entirely about the pair of briefs that had landed on the couch.

Once he was sure Jim was clothed, Spock eyed him warily. “You have shown yourself to be adequate in a leadership position.”

Jim groaned and dropped back into his chair. “Adequate. Fantastic. I’ll have that engraved on my tombstone. James T. ‘Adequate’ Kirk: He Was Alright, I Guess.”

“You misunderstand me, Captain. To be judged adequate is high praise for a Vulcan. I am more concerned with your sudden display of insecurity. I have never known you to place much importance on the opinions of others.”

“Not ‘others,’ Spock.  _You_.” For a split second, Jim thought he saw the tiniest break in Spock’s impassivity. But then, nothing. “Aw, fuck. Never mind.”

“Jim, you were placed in this position with no real experience to speak of, and yet you have learned immensely from each task you are given. While I often disagree with your strategies, they have saved many lives and greatly aided the cause of interplanetary peace. Despite the unpleasant circumstances of our initial acquaintance, you have earned my respect and indeed my admiration.”

It was eloquent. It was beautiful. It was the most effusive praise Jim had ever heard Spock give anyone – colleagues and ex-girlfriends included – and Jim wanted to repay the favor with powerful words of his own. 

Instead he said, “Well, _shit_.”

Spock placed his hand atop Jim’s on the table. Everything went completely still.

“I find myself agreeing with you in regard to the elevated temperature.”

&&&

He has to find Spock. Now. He goes over the facts: sometime after dinner yesterday, he consumed somewhere between one cup and one bottle of Talaxian wine. Which was spiked with aphrodisiac. At some point after that, he had been in the rec room. Pantsless. With Spock. Then he had put his pants back on and…

No. Stop there. No use in trying to draw conclusions before all the facts are in.  _Dammit_ , Jim curses at himself, _that was far too logical. Spock must be rubbing off on me. Spock… rubbing off… Fuck!_

And he runs smack into his first officer just as the Vulcan is exiting his quarters.

“Spock, we gotta talk.”

“Regrettably, my presence is needed—“

“Do you remember what happened last night?”

Spock wants to say no – Jim can see it in his eyes, the lie trying to form and failing miserably. “Perhaps we should speak privately,” Spock admits, keying open his door again.

Jim goes in first but then doesn’t know what to do with himself. There is only one chair at the desk, and he doesn’t want to sit and leave Spock standing. But the only other sitting option is the… bed.  _Balls_.

“So that shit we drank was Talaxian wine,” Jim starts. “How much did you have?”

“I believe we each consumed approximately equal portions.”

“Didn’t get you drunk, though, did it?”

Spock’s face remains neutral, but his gaze is resting somewhere around Jim’s forehead instead of his eyes. “I remained unaffected by the… alcohol.”

The pause makes Jim suspicious. “You knew about the aphrodisiac?”

“At the time, no,” Spock hastily replies. “Only after some intensive research this morning did I isolate the additional substance present.”

“So you…?” Jim finds he has no good way to finish that sentence.

“Vulcans are not immune to the effects of the chemical, if that is what you are asking.”

“How much do you remember about yesterday?”

“I can recall many events that occurred in the past 24 hours.”

“Dammit, Spock, quit evading!” Even Jim is a little surprised at his own outburst. “We were in the rec room. We were… flirting, kind of. We left, and then…”

Spock looks as uncomfortable as Jim has ever seen him, and Jim has seen him on the receiving end of several invasive medical procedures courtesy of Bones. “Perhaps if you do not remember, it would be best to leave the subject alone.”

“But I want to remember!”

“I cannot supply that memory for you.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“I apologize, but I am needed in Engineering.”

As Spock turns to go, the door slides open.

 

 _  
**Stardate: Early this morning, 0ass00 hours. Location: Captain’s quarters…**   
_

As soon as the door slid shut, Spock was on him – as Bones would say – like ugly on an ape. He’d barely even gotten his shirt off. It was nearly unbearable, the hot, hard Vulcan body pinning him to the wall making it difficult to move or think or breathe.

Jim was not a stranger to such situations. Nay, Jim was practically an expert on such situations. It was just that Spock – supposedly emotionless half-Vulcan, all-bastard – was kissing him _passionately_ , extravagantly, like the fate of several populated star systems depended on it. Jim’s brain, unlike his ego, knew when to admit defeat.

Hot, so fucking hot, heat everywhere, tongue in his mouth like a brand.   Jim fisted his hand in Spock’s hair, yanked his head back just so he could fucking breathe, then dove back in, dragging his tongue wetly across Spock’s lower lip before plunging it into the furnace of the Vulcan’s mouth.

Even if there had been time for finesse, there was no space, not with Spock’s hand on the small of his back and Spock’s leg pressed hard between his own. Before he knew it, Jim was rutting against Spock’s thigh, the friction from the firm muscle and his own pants just shy of perfect. This wasn’t going to last long. He could feel Spock’s erection but couldn’t touch – one hand was still buried in that obnoxiously perfect but luxuriously soft hair, and the other was being stroked, clutched, and generally molested by Spock’s hand. In an uncharacteristic display of rationality, Jim figured he could spare the latter hand without being accidentally smothered by a ridiculously, blissfully horny Vulcan, and yanked it away from Spock’s.

This had the unintended effect of snapping some sense into Spock, who tried to pull back.   “Wait, Jim, I think we should—“

But Jim was too far gone. When Spock shifted his weight, the pressure on Jim’s cock went from just shy to full-on perfect and he was coming, helplessly and embarrassingly in his pants like a teenager. As he shuddered against Spock’s body, he made another attempt to reach for the Vulcan’s erection, but whatever high had come from that obnoxiously pink wine was ebbing fast.

Much, much too fast. Jim was vaguely aware of Spock moving him towards the bed and muttering in an apologetic tone before everything went black.

&&&

Jim manages to catch Spock’s wrist before he can make it out the door. A thousand thoughts shoot through his mind, but the only thing he can seem to regret is the fact that the pleasure went unreciprocated. Thus, what comes out of his mouth is, “Spock, you didn’t—“

The tips of Spock’s ears start to flush green and Jim remembers what he’s been reminded of a thousand times but which he always manages to forget – Spock’s a touch telepath, and Jim apparently has a built-in mental megaphone. “That is true, though inconsequential, and hardly the proper detail upon which to focus,” Spock mutters a little too quietly.

“Oh, I think it’s plenty consequential,” says Jim, tugging gently on Spock’s captive wrist. And despite the fact that Spock could not only shake him off but also probably put him through the nearest wall, he turns back around to face Jim.

“Explain,” says Spock, looking almost possibly maybe a little surprised that the word came out of his mouth.

“The relationship of a captain and a first officer is built on give and take, right? You maroon me on Delta Vega; I goad you into choking me. I save you from attacking alien enemy hordes; you bandage me up a little when I’m injured. These things sort of even out.”

“As I recall, the ‘alien hordes’ were less than a meter tall and armed with fragile wooden staves. And the last time I offered you emergency medical assistance, you had lost close to two pints of blood and were losing consciousness.”

“Okay, so maybe the balance is a little more on your side.”

Spock remains unmoved but, amazingly, he still has not pulled his wrist from Jim’s grip. Jim sighs, giving it another go. “Here we are, two modern 23rd century men who find ourselves otherwise unattached and attracted to one another. We trust each other. We work well together. I would go as far as to say that we _like_ each other. You know how badly I want you, and I’m pretty damn sure you want me. Am I saying anything untrue?”

“Negative.”

“Look, there could be a lot of pointless waffling about how much was the aphrodisiac and how much was us, what this means, and just how far Pike will shove his boot up my ass if he ever finds out. Or.  _Or_ – pay attention here – I could even up the score right here, right now.”

Spock shifts his weight ever so slightly, but his eyes are steady. “While your terminology is vague, the latter option seems to be the more… expedient.”

“Fuck yeah it does. Come here and I’ll un-vague my terminology for you.”

He lets go of Spock’s wrist and though Jim is still half-expecting the Vulcan to spin on his heels and leave, Spock steps forward, definitively invading his captain’s personal space. Spock’s face is too close for Jim to take in all at once, so he examines one feature at a time – the elegantly pointed ears, the coal-black eyelashes nearly obscuring dark, searching eyes. The strong jawline, practically begging to be nipped, flawless white skin marred by the indentation of teeth. The tip of a tongue peeking out to wet – _oh yes_ – full pink lips.

They come together in slow motion, as if each is daring the other to back out. The first brush of lips is not hesitant – Jim doubts Spock has ever done anything hesitantly – but deliberate. After all, Spock is a scientist at heart, prone to detailed, methodical exploration, and Jim… well, Jim just sort of wants whatever galaxy they’re currently in to stop rotating in honor of this momentous occasion. His first officer – half-Vulcan and all- _sober_ this time – is sliding his hot, perfect tongue along Jim’s lower lip, an unbelievably arousing reversal of last night’s oral assault. That softrough tongue _catches_ for mere hundredths of a second on Jim’s overheated, oversensitized lip and he realizes with very little remorse that the score (orgasm-wise) is definitely not going to be tied at the end of this particular round.

Once Jim finally manages to capture Spock’s lips with his own and get a hand clenched in that infuriating, amazing hair, things speed up rapidly. His shirt is off, then he’s tripping over Spock’s empty boots, then he’s trying very hard not to ruin a second pair of pants as Spock pushes him to the bed with one hand while smoothly removing his own shirt with the other.

When they’re both naked and sprawled together on the bunk, Spock pulls back, lips swollen and eyes nearly black with lust. Confused by the loss of contact, Jim leans back in, but Spock stops him, catches one of his hands, and brings it up to eye level. Jim watches as Spock runs the pads of his fingers slowly, delicately over Jim’s own fingers, hears his breath catch as the Vulcan brushes over the slightly rougher skin at the knuckles, and something clicks into place in Jim’s head. When the captain reciprocates the finger-kiss with a little more pressure, a little more need, Spock’s eyelashes flutter closed and the barely audible “ _Jim_ ” that escapes unbidden from his lips is the only thing that James T. Kirk wants to hear ever again.

He knows he’s not playing fair when he guides Spock’s fingers to his face, teasing them just a little with the dry slide of his lips before engulfing them in his mouth, but playing fair has never resulted in a naked, debauched Vulcan in his bed. Spock’s erection is throbbing against Jim’s leg, and Jim reaches his other hand down to wrap around it, squeezing gently but not stroking.

Spock gasps, “Jim—Jim, you must stop—I cannot…” but seems to lack the resolve to pull his hand from Jim’s grasp. The captain shows mercy on his first officer and relents, pressing a final kiss to the Vulcan’s fingertips before rolling over to reach the bedside table.

Jim rolls back over, lube in hand, and begins, “Spock, do you want—“ but is cut off abruptly by Spock’s mouth over his. The Vulcan seems to have collected his wits remarkably quickly, because he swiftly has Jim’s wrists pinned over his head.

If the kiss leaves Jim gloriously breathless, his heart nearly stops beating altogether when Spock all but purrs in his ear, “Unless my deductions are mistaken, I believe you would prefer a… firm hand in the events to follow.” And before Jim can moan out a _yesholyfuckSpockyes_ , he’s being flipped roughly onto his stomach and having his thighs spread wide by clever Vulcan hands. And if he doesn’t object too strenuously to the teeth that sink into the muscle at his shoulder while a long, slick finger works it way into him, well, he figures he does owe Spock quite a bit in the larger, cosmic sense.

When he’s open and ready, writhing on three of Spock’s fingers, the Vulcan hauls Jim up to his knees. Here Spock pauses, using the hand not currently driving his captain to distraction to tilt Jim’s face toward him. And maybe Spock does hesitate just a little bit, because Jim has time to twist back a bit awkwardly and steal another quick, messy kiss while thinking _YES_ at Spock through every spot where their skins touch.

Spock hears him, or feels him, or _something_ , because without further delay Spock is pushing his thick, heavy, unbelievably _hot_ length into Jim’s body. The stretch is painful and wonderful and new and familiar and just keeps going on and on until Spock is finally buried to the hilt.

The voice coming from behind Jim is so wonderfully broken that he thinks he might be hearing things. “Are you—“ A quick intake of breath. “…adequately—“

“Fuck me, Spock,” Jim cries, adding a quiet “please” because, really, Vulcans do seem to like their manners. But then Spock pulls back and slams into him in a very unmannerly way that drives the breath right out of Jim’s lungs and the thoughts from his head. He’s getting the barest fragments of Spock’s mind through the telepathic connection and what he’s getting is jumbled and hot and wild.

“It was not. The intoxicant,” Spock murmurs between thrusts. “It was. You.”

Jim gives himself over to it, pushing back against Spock’s thrusts and encouraging him with wall-shaking shouts. Not that the Vulcan needs the encouragement – Spock’s hips piston into Jim with a controlled strength like he could do this for hours and a greedy little sob escapes Jim’s lips when he realizes _maybe he can_.

But Jim’s not one to take such things lying down – or, as the case may be, on all fours – so he reaches back to pry one of Spock’s hands from his hips and guides it to his mouth.   When he pushes his tongue between Spock’s knuckles, the Vulcan lets loose with a soft but undeniable moan as his hips stutter, then speed up. Jim sucks at the fingers in his mouth in time with Spock’s thrusts, and lets out a whine when the hand is pulled away. But it goes beneath him to wrap hard and searing around his cock, and, hey, that’s good too.

So good, in fact, that Jim’s climax hits him out of nowhere like a fist to the solar plexus and he has to fist his hands in the sheets to keep from flying away. Spock fucks him through it and keeps going, and it’s just this side of too much but Jim wants to hear, wants to feel every last detail that he didn’t get to experience last time.

“C’mon Spock, come in me, I wanna—“ And like always, Spock interrupts his babbling with a well-timed word, or in this case, _growl_ with just enough possessiveness in it to make Jim’s arms quiver. He’s flooded with heat like he’s never felt before and then they’re both falling to the bed. Spock pulls out before it does become too much and falls to the side, his breath ragged and his eyes closed.

Jim’s not sure what the Vulcan policy on cuddling is, but figures it’s probably negative, so he stays where he is – close enough to feel the heat radiating from Spock’s body, but not close enough to touch. His blood rushes deafeningly in his ears and he tries in vain to sort out what’s just happened. Things are going to change – he knows that. And there’s a good chance he’ll get another tongue-lashing from Pike, and not in a fun, dirty way either. But right now, consequences mean approximately dick, since he’s currently lying in Spock’s bed and trying to think up ways to prolong and possibly repeat the situation.

Spock’s eyes open slowly and his voice is quiet but rough in a wonderful, devious way. “Perhaps it violates human standards of politeness to mention at such a time, but the ‘score,’ as you put it, is not yet even.” He threads his fingers between Jim’s and lays their joined hands between them.

Jim laughs, happy for this and happy in a perverse sort of way for the ache he’s going to feel in the morning. “You’re gonna have to give me some time to recover or we’ll both end up in sickbay, and Bones will make us finish inventory before he treats us.”

 

 _  
**Stardate: Yesterday, 2000 hours. Location: Sickbay…**   
_

Spock found him in the sickbay supply closet doing inventory. 

“Captain.”

Jim sprang up straight, flinging half a dozen sterile packages of blessedly needle-free hyposprays in the air. “For God’s sake, Spock, we’ve talked about this! Either you make more noise on your way in or I stick a cat bell on your uniform.”

“I hardly think that would be an appropriate alteration to Starfleet’s dress code, despite your insistence upon flouting it.”

“Not my fault the pants they keep giving me are too big. Besides, it would reflect poorly on Starfleet if it looked like their youngest, most dashing starship captain had kind of a saggy ass,” said Jim, straightening up in what he hoped was a dignified way. “Did you need something? Or are you here to rub it in?”

“I have been attempting to locate you for twenty-three point eight minutes, since my shift ended. It appears this supply closet is not included in the main search grid. This oversight should be remedied immediately.”

“Aw, let Bones have his make-out spot.”

“Captain,” Spock said with a blink that was clearly a heavy sigh, “despite the fact that you have 24 hours of unscheduled time, you have sequestered yourself in a closet performing a task that you have repeatedly said that you, and I quote, ‘have people to do that.’ I can only conclude one of two things. Either Doctor McCoy has found some novel way of coercing you into doing actual work, or you are hiding.”

“Well, Bones is pretty creative like that.” Jim tried for a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Spock, of course, would have none of it, and let the silence continue until Jim couldn’t help but fill it.

“Alright, fine, I’m hiding. But I did just get bitched out by Admiral Pike in front of my entire crew. You’d hide, too – you’d just find a better excuse for it.”

Remarkably, Spock chose not to contradict him. “Today’s incident was but a brief anomaly considering your usual charisma in the face of overwhelming opposition.”

“Why do I never have a voice recorder on me when you actually admit I’m charming?”

“I prefer to remain unpredictable in that manner.”

Jim let out a sigh and plopped down on a box of medical supplies, which sagged ominously under his weight. “I know. It’s a stupid little thing, right?” He shook his head fiercely then went to lean back against the shelves, smacking his head on a stack of bedpans resting there. 

“Gah! Fuck! All I want to do is get nicely hammered, sleep for a few hours, and forget this ever happened. But naturally my supply of Andorian ale ran out two days ago because I owed Sulu – he went on a bender after Chekov told him he needed space – and if Bones is hiding any he’s found a new place for it because _I_ sure as hell can’t find it and the only thing vaguely inebriating on this _entire_ ship is Scotty’s radiator whisky and I can’t think of anything – other than impending death or possibly my grandmother walking in on me jerking off in the shower – that would convince me to drink it.”

Jim gasped for air and scanned Spock’s face for the morbidly amused little lip quirk that he usually got when Jim talked until he ran out of breath, but instead Spock just looked… shifty?

“If I could locate the aforementioned beverage, you must promise not to overindulge.”

Jim’s jaw dropped open. “Spock, you have a _stash_? Have you been holding out on me all this time?”

“Negative. I observed two ensigns engaging in physical conflict over a bottle and duly confiscated it, as Andorian ale is, in fact, illegal. Thus I recommend we dispose of it as quickly as possible.”

Jim actually started to tear up. “I… I think I might be in love with you.”

“If I had known your affections were contingent upon the provision of intoxicants, I would have been much stricter in my inspections of the junior officers’ belongings.”

Jim laughs until tears leak from his eyes and his face turns pink.


End file.
